mightbewriting

A Season for Setting Fires

Mary Carmona

“Show me,” he says. “You can do it.”

He knows she can. Because they’re in a quiet, relatively safe place playing pretend. None of this is real and there are no consequences, apart from knowledge.

He wants to know what kind of touches make her gasp. Make her keen. Make her screw her eyes shut.

“When we were in the tent, you came. Right?” He knows she did. He hasn’t been able to get those sounds out of his head.

She makes the most horrible (wonderful) squeaking sound, a backwards gasp that surprise must have pushed from her lungs. 

It takes three blinks for her to eventually nod her head.

“Show me how you do it then. How you like it. And I can—next time.”

“Draco...” It sounds nothing like a protest. If he closes his eyes, it might even sound like a moan.

“Do you know what today is?” he asks, stepping around the low table in front of the loveseat, positioning himself in front of the windows.

Even when he’s not facing her, he feels Hermione’s eyes on him. He turns to her. His skin feels alive, suddenly manic.

“If I’ve been counting right, and I’m not sure I have, but—I think it’s my birthday.”

He’s going to be sick. Desperation practically spills from his pores, an unfortunate flood inside his chest, surging with a new tide.

He nods. He has to turn away again. He can’t look at her when he says this. The blueish, pre-dawn glow isn’t enough cover. He can barely look at himself, a hinted reflection in the glass.

“There’s something I think I’d like for my birthday.” He fights off the urge to ball his fists. “If you’re feeling giving.”

A Season for Setting Fires

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